So, season four of Supernatural ... a gift for my flist
Title: Sam Wesson has left the building
Summary: The angels told Dean who he was, gave him back his memories, but Sam Wesson was gone. I think you should leave the last words he’d said to his little brother.
Genre: hurt/comfort, angst
XXXX
Zechariah could smile and look smug at the same time. Dean told him he would stab him in his face, angel or not and admitted, if only to himself that yes, hunting was his way of life. But only until it was safe again in the world, so yeah, forever, he guessed, or at least until he could save Sam, or until he died, whichever came first. And he might as well continue on the status quo, walking under ladders, while breaking mirrors while a black cat crosses his path. It was the Winchester way.
“Okay, so Zechariah, if you’re done Freaky Friday’in us, I’m going to change out of this monkey suit and go get Sam,” Dean told Castiel’s boss.
“Hardly a monkey suit, Dean,” Zechariah said, sounding genuinely offended, “That’s Armani all the way I’ll have you to know, owed us one.”
“Well since you pretty much gave me carte blanche to go on with being sleazy, I think I’ll keep the Armani for uh, interviewing witnesses,” Dean said with a wink heading for the door to fetch Sam.
“You do that, I’ll see you soon,” the angel said as Dean started out the door, turning around to take one last look at the what ifs this hunt had presented.
“Did I just say carte blanche?” Dean asked himself, shaking his head and knowing the sooner he and Sam had a beer and … God help him, a talk, the better off they’d be.
“New habits die hard,” Zechariah laughed. Castiel never laughed in any of his dealings with him. Dean wondered if an angel got his wings, his trials, a promotion, then a sense of humor and he wondered what level Cas was on, because that guy needed a … well, a life.
Dean walked down the hall calmly but inside he felt anything but. How would Sam react to seeing him in a suit and tie now that he knew him again? Dean slowed down, thinking over the last few days. Even in the alternate reality that Zechariah had placed them, Sam still wanted to be near him, talk to him when I dreamed, I saw us as friends, more like brothers. And he accused Sam of over-sharing, and almost buried his connection to the young man who had introduced himself in the elevator as Sam Wesson. The worst thing though, he sent Sam away when Sam suggested that they should save people, hunt things. Wasn’t that the very line Dean used on Sam some five years ago?
Zechariah left all of Dean’s memories from the last few days intact. Sam’s face flashed in Dean’s mind as he walked, the raw emotions, the awe of the hunt, the way Sam looked at him, like he used to, like a hero, like he could save the world, like he could save him. If only he could have taken the time to revel in that innocence. If only he could have trapped some of it to give back to the Sam he was sure to meet in a few minutes, as soon as his suddenly very heavy feet would get him to the cubicles downstairs.
The elevator nearest his office was still closed for repair, and Dean took the stairs, grateful for a few moments to collect his thoughts. The last thing he said to his brother was, I think you should go. Now he would beg Sam to stay, to fight beside him until the end wherever the road took them. Only when he arrived at the cubicles slightly out of breath and hungrier than he’d ever been in his life, Sam was gone.
“Has anyone seen Sam Win … Wesson?” he asked.
“He quit,” said an approaching tech who carried a new telephone and a stupid yellow polo shirt, as if Sam could be replaced.
Dean was about to go back to ‘his’ office to fetch his things only to realize that nothing there was his. He shrugged out of the suit jacket and expensive tie and flung them at the guy nearest who looked about his size and ran out the doors to the stairs taking two at a time. He rounded the corner of the atrium and threw his ID at a startled security guard and grabbed his keys from his pocket. The damn hybrid! The Impala was nowhere in sight. With a snort of disgust Dean got in the car and started driving. It was then that he realized he had no idea where his brother went.
Or if the angels had forgotten to let Sam in on the joke.
Oh my God, Sammy …
“Castiel!” Dean shouted as he pounded the steering wheel.
Sam could be anywhere by now.
XXXXXX
I think you should go.
The words repeated in Sam’s head and sunk, swirling in the pit of his stomach. He’d heard them before.
And if you walk out that door, don’t come back.
Sam pulled over. He stared at the passenger side of the old Impala. He’d always wanted one of those new hybrids but on his wage, this was all he could afford … but no that wasn’t right. Panic rose to replace the confusing memories and Sam stared at his cell phone. He’d gone through his entire list of contacts and no one knew who he was. It was all Sam could do not to U-turn and head back toward his former workplace, to Dean. But he was nothing to Dean, never had been, despite the dreams, despite the connection he felt when they fought side by side.
Sam swiped his hand over his eyes, rubbing hard enough to cause trails of light to blur across his retinas from the pressure. He was tired but didn’t want to go home to his small apartment. Sleep was not his friend. It seemed daylight wasn’t his friend anymore either because he couldn’t shake the ridiculous need to see … the guy in the suit upstairs. The guy in his dreams, now that just sounded wrong, the guy who he missed like he’d known him all his life. But he was alone in the world.
Sam kept it together only enough to wonder if the ghost back at the building had done a number on his brain. Dean, Mr. Smith, he amended in his mind to make himself feel less connected, seemed fine when the ghost hunt was over, detached and normal. So Sam went home.
Sam unlocked his apartment, having an immediate urge to open the curtains that looked out over the parking lot, to keep an eye on the Impala. The urge to see Mr. Smith overwhelming him even more now that he was no long cocooned in the sleek black car with the annoying squeaky doors. An urge to keep the car safe for reasons he couldn’t explain to himself was ever present in his mind.
As Sam busied himself tidying up, anything to keep himself distracted as images of horrific murders played in his mind, he glanced out toward the car every five minutes, almost sighing in relief every time he found it was still there, whole and safe. Sam cleaned, like neurotic ninja cleaned, ceiling fans, grout in the bathroom, and kickboards of the kitchen cupboards that no one ever saw, until exhaustion overtook him. He lay in his bed. It wasn’t right. The door was in too close a proximity to where he slept. He turned over to face the wall, feeling the emptiness behind him.
Sam closed his eyes but sleep wouldn’t claim him as his eyes roved under the lids watching himself burn bodies and torture people, a strange language playing like a weird horror movie soundtrack in his head. Only he recognized and understood what the voices were saying, and was speaking it himself even. He tried to still his mind, breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, slowly, but even that was wrong, somehow, someone was supposed to be there, telling him how to breathe, telling him how to make this go away, making everything alright.
I’m losing my mind.
Sam got up with purpose, feeling that if he put out the garbage that contained the bloody yellow shirt, the bad things would go away.
Cursed object? Sam Smacked himself in the face with cold water for even thinking such a stupid thing. The yellow shirt was tied up in a plastic bag in a container under the sink so it wouldn’t smell until garbage day came. Sam gathered the bag, holding it as far away from himself as he could, like it was bomb that would detonate and take whatever sliver of sanity he had left away.
In the parking lot by the dumpsters Sam drew in some cool evening air and threw the bag over the side of the steel bins. His body begged to walk back into the apartment and succumb to the weariness but his feet lead him to the car. His hand automatically reached for the passenger side door and he was momentarily shocked to find it locked as he jerked on the handle, desperate to hear the annoying screech of opening. He unlocked the car and got inside, not bothering to walk around to get in the driver’s side. It felt right here, warm, safe, home. And with those thoughts, Sam fell asleep.
It was dark when Sam heard a pounding noise. He jerked awake, hitting his head on the ceiling of the car and sprawling across the seat when he tried to stand up, thinking he was in bed. He fumbled to crawl out, foot hitting the horn as he clambered to a more dignified position. A cop stood outside the Impala, nightstick in hand, tapping it menacingly on his open palm, waiting expectantly for Sam to get out and explain what he was doing sleeping in a car. The yellow overhead lot lighting caught the man’s eyes and flashed amber. Sam’s gut twisted and he drew his knees in and his hand back from the door handle, terrified for reasons he couldn’t fathom.
“You have thirty seconds to get out of that car and explain why you’re sleeping in a parking lot,” warned the cop, his eyes a normal shade of green now. He talked into his radio, informing some unseen person that he was about to perform a Breathalyzer test and might need backup.
But Sam couldn’t do it; couldn’t get out. Those eyes. He’d seen them in his dreams. Dean … no, someone who looked like Dean had killed someone with yellow eyes. Yellow eyes weren’t right anymore than the yellow shirt that was now in the dumpster thirty feet away.
“I’ll say it again; step out of the vehicle.” The cop was getting mad. Sam just couldn’t do it.
Pretty soon another cruiser pulled up, both cops trying to coax Sam from the vehicle, firstly in a nice way, then by playing good cop bad cop, then by smashing a window throwing Sam into a complete panic. Sam grabbed his cell phone and dialed Dean’s extension number back at Sandwell.
“You’ve reached Dean Smith, please leave a message or text and I’ll be in touch as soon as possible,” said Mr. Smith’s voicemail.
Sam tried to speak, he really did, only what could he say? So his fingers played out like a remembered song he couldn’t identify, and he didn’t have a clue what he typed. Before he could stop himself, he hit send.
The window shattered into a million pieces along with Sam’s mind. He curled in on himself, knowing in the back of his mind somewhere that smashing sounds near the Impala were never a good thing.
Hands grabbed him as he fought to cling to his spot in the car his spot.
Sam flailed and kicked, connecting with flesh several times earning him painful whacks with wooden batons. His body barely flinched, like it was used to punishment. He fought blindly until his feet were swept out from under him. A heavy body lay across his chest, attempting to pin his arms as he kicked out. A jolt of electricity chorused through his tortured mind and exhausted body, held in place for a prolonged period of absolute agony. Blinded to everything by the pain and the jerking of his body, Sam looked up at the reflected light in the yellow eyes, the baton held at his throat, choking him.
Sam’s vision narrowed until voices floated down to the pavement, mingling with the whispers of horror in his aching head.
Someone was screaming for someone to stop something, but Sam wasn’t doing anything, not anymore, so he disregarded it and enjoyed the sudden peace the lack of oxygen brought him. One of the cops fell to the ground, black smoke billowing from his mouth. The cop rolled over to stare eye to eye with Sam. Green eyes, good, Sam thought vaguely, letting the darkness take him.
XXXX
Dean drove as fast as he could, realizing he had no idea where Sam Wesson lived. It felt unreal to call his office and ask his former secretary for a phone number and address of an employee who’d quit, and to actually have the call answered on all accounts. As soon as Dean hung up, having made a date somehow with the former secretary, an unfamiliar noise sounded. Dean’s own cell phone was in his hand, but Mr. Smith’s phone was ringing from within the deep Armani trousers pockets. The theme from Chariots of Fire?
“This is Dean.” It was the only thing he could think of to say. But then he looked down and realized the message was in text form. Not co-ordinates but something just as familiar, Morse code. Funky Town.
Dean pulled up to the modest building, but spotting the flashing lights around back, he parked and walked as casually as he could to see what was going on. He suppressed a shout as someone was hoisted onto a gurney that was whisked into the back of a waiting ambulance. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the blue uniform. It wasn’t Sam.
The relief was short lived.
An officer sat on the ground, running his hands through his hair, looking like he was having a hell of a time explaining to a plainclothes officer who was clearly his superior, what had happened.
“I don’t know what happened, he just kept hitting the suspect with his tazer over and over, even after the guy gave up and went into convulsions. I kept yelling for Officer Jonas to stop, then Jonas sort of just fell to the ground and there was this … smoke … it came out of his mouth, so much of it. When he came to, he looked at the suspect and kept muttering how sorry he was.”
Dean’s mouth went dry. The plainclothes cop ordered the uniformed cop to go home and get some rest and report to the office for a psychiatric evaluation in the morning. Dean got it together as best he could and approached the scene.
“Excuse me officers, something wrong with my car?” Dean asked, appearing as if he had just come across the scene.
“This your car?” the officer asked.
“Just said it was, of course, it’s my project car,” Dean lied, pointing to the nose of the hybrid sticking out from the side of the building where he’d parked. “That’s my every day car,” he added, knowing that the shiny new car would gain him some instant credibility and respect.
“I’m afraid we caught a vagrant sleeping in your vehicle, Mr…”
“Smith,” Dean lied again, reaching for the ID that hadn’t mysteriously disappeared along with the life he’d lead for a few days.
“Well, Mr. Smith, you’d be making our work a lot easier if you’d go through your car right now to check and see if anything was stolen.”
Dean made a show of going through the car, making sure he didn’t accidentally let any of their fake ID”s fall from the glove box.
“Nah, everything’s here, the guy probably was just sleeping off a drunken fight with a girlfriend or something,” Dean assured the officer, feeling sick about not being able to get to Sam right away.
“So, ah, where did they take the guy?” Dean asked, trying to sound casual.
“The guy went ballistic when they tried to get him to exit the vehicle, probably an addict. He’s been taken to the hospital. You have a fine evening, here’s your incident report to hand to your insurance company Mr. Smith, and next time, lock up.”
“Will do, officer,” Dean said, barely containing the snarl. He kicked at the shards of glass on the ground and swore after the officers pulled away.
On the third floor of Sam’s building, Dean worked for thirty seconds to pick the lock to Sam’s apartment. Inaccurate depictions of supernatural beings, hand drawn, were hanging from every wall as though Sam had been trying to figure out his life. But Dean could still tell what the beings were. There was the Wendigo, drawn in the style Sam used when he was six years old, the werewolf, half morphed into a woman and Dean’s heart broke to see Madison’s eyes staring out from the wolfish face. Pictures of insanity and desperation to unburden his mind.
“Castiel!” Dean yelled again and again, no one appeared. Dean slammed his fist down on the telephone table. A small address book fell to the ground, full of crossed out names, all with the last name Wesson. Dean flipped through the pages, his heart sinking seeing his name written over and over again with different last names. Dean Smith, Dean Wesson, Dean Colt, Dean Pattinson, Dean Glockenspiel, Dean Baretta. Then there was a hole punched through about ten pages, trailing pencil lead as if Sam had become frustrated and stabbed the book. And on the last page, Smith and Wesson.
XXXX
A jab of pain in the crook of his elbow opened Sam’s eyes and he lashed at the hands that seemed to crawl all over him. Voices talked over his screams of pain and added to the thunder in his brain. A face appeared very near his and looked down at him.
“Can you tell us what you’re on?” a white coated man asked.
Sam tried to get his mouth to move. What did they mean, on? Sam tried to focus as the man looked away shouting orders at the people who kept poking and prodding him. His shirt was cut away and Sam vaguely worried about how mad his boss would be about the yellow polo getting ruined when he remembered that he wasn’t wearing it anymore. He’d quit. Yeah. And Mr. Smith was still there. Away from him.
“Tox screen came back negative, also negative for alcohol,” someone said.
Sam tried to push aside the oxygen mask that helped him pull breaths in past his bruised larynx. The doctor leaned over him again, this time, sounding a little less accusatory and a little more kind. “Okay, son, don’t worry, we’ll get you sorted out. We need to immobilize your neck for a bit to give your throat a break. You have three broken ribs and your electrolytes are all over the place from the jolts. We’re going to give you something for the pain now that we know you’re know you’re clean and then we’re going to set your wrist. Do you understand?”
Sam nodded slowly, hanging desperately on the words pain relief and hoping whatever they gave him would take the ache and emptiness from his heart too and put his brain out of its misery.
“Poor kid,” a female voice said. “Wonder how he came to be sleeping in a car. Doesn’t look like a vagrant.”
M’not a vagrant, that car, it’s … home. Sam thought miserably.
Sam had been a John Doe many times before, that much he knew, he’d just never been a Sam Wesson, and there had always been someone to come for him, no matter how long it took. There was usually someone yelling about needing to see him, to get their damn hands off his little brother … but Sam wasn’t a little brother. Tears leaked from Sam’s eyes and dripped over his nose down his cheeks. He fought the medicine that only a minute ago, he craved, dying, quite literally to hear that voice, the one that claimed him for his own, that’s my brother Sam Tyler, Sam Zappa, Sam Osbourne, just not Sam Wesson, never Sam Wesson. Or Sammy … He’d called him Sammy once, Mr. Smith had. But never brother.
“The meds should be kicking in by now,” someone said, grasping Sam’s wrist, preparing to set and cast it.
“Don’t fight it, kid,” the nurse told Sam. So Sam let go. And that’s when the alarms went off and more hands were on his body as he floated away like a balloon let go by a child ready to reach its limit, burst and fall to earth and crash and burn.
What would I do without you?
Crash and burn.
“Blood pressure’s bottoming out! Get the paddles ready but don’t hit unless we can’t get him back. He’s already been tasered at least three times.”
Someone straddled him and pushed on his chest violently hard, sending splinters of pain throughout his body, air was forced in and out of him, conflicting with the hands on his chest pumping it right back out.
“Got him!” someone by his head shouted. Duh, yeah, you got me, not like I can run away. But that was exactly what he wanted to do. No one cared anyway. No one was coming for him. Why did these people make him come back to nothing?
XXXX
Dean knew he had to be careful. He caught snippets of conversation from nurses at the desk of the hospital about the poor young man who was admitted screaming about demons and having nobody. He debated telling them the he was Sam’s brother, like he’d always done, but somehow it didn’t fit and he didn’t want Sam freaked out more right now, after all, Mr. Smith had told Mr. Wesson to leave and closed the door on him even as Sam had turned to say something, his words dying on his lips.
“Can I help you?” asked a bored receptionist, who perked up the moment she looked up from her computer screen to Dean.
“You sure can, Ms, Dairy,” Dean read from the lapel of her uniform. “I’m Dean Smith from Sandwell. You have one of our employees, a Sam Wesson admitted here. “
“How do you know that? We’ve been trying to reach next-of-kin for an hour, Mr. Smith and have been unable.” Ms. Dairy flipped her finger down the list of not-in-service numbers she’d been given to try from Sam’s cell. “He hasn’t listed an employer contact so I’m sorry but I can’t offer you any information.”
“Um, about that, yeah, of course,” Dean stammered, wanting to go full-on Dean Winchester, guy who practically raised Sam all by himself but reigning it in so he could figure something out. “See, the thing is, Sandwell has been experiencing a lot of entry level employee stress leaves, even a few suicides so we’ve started an outreach program, you know to firm up the bottom line, and we’ve been trying to get young Wesson to see our staff psychologist but unfortunately with the death of a workmate only a few days ago, the poor kid quit. We didn’t process the er letter of resignation smashed telephone and shattered cubicle wanting to give him a cooling off period, so we’re prepared to pay for his medical costs,”
“That’s very generous of the company, Mr. Smith,” Ms Dairy said, pushing some forms toward Dean and asking him to fill them out.
Dean unfolded Mr. Smith’s expensive leather wallet and copied a number from an insurance form. His eyes raked the questions on the form supposed to be filled in by family or friends. Standing up quickly he approached the desk, his most winning smile in place.
“Um, Sammy, er, Sam, Mr. Wesson that is, I heard that his parents and younger sister were killed in a plane crash recently,” he lied. I forgot his employee forms back at the office but I do remember him mentioning being allergic to penicillin. We do a lot of team building exercises at Sandwell, they encourage mingling.” Dean couldn’t believe the woman in front of him was buying this made-for-TV moment and lying he was doing, but she actually became a bit misty eyed.
“Well that would explain the outbursts, that boy’s been through the ringer,” Ms Dairy said sadly. “We have a decent psych ward here once he gets out of the ICU, but if Sandwell is as committed as you say, he might be better off at a privately run facility.”
“ICU?” Dean suddenly stammered.
“Mr. Wesson was tasered three times and has suffered numerous fractures. Strictly speaking I’m not supposed to tell you this but I can’t imagine that poor boy being alone in all of this, not with his family and workmate so recently deceased. Anyone would crack under those pressures.”
You have no idea lady, Dean thought.
Dean left the hospital, feet dragging and walked right by the hybrid, instinctively looking for the Impala, panicking momentarily not finding it. He got in the hybrid and drove to Mr. Smith’s apartment, figuring he might as well stay there as to stay in a sleazy motel. When had things gotten so screwed up?
Dean sat in Mr. Smith’s chair trying to come up with a way to take back all the horrible things he’d said to his brother. I think you should go, you don’t have my back anymore, something about screwing monsters. Mr. Smith and Mr. Winchester had both done a number on their little brother. And Dean was going to make it right, both ways, he was going to listen to Sam’s apology and make one of his own. That is if he could get Sam Winchester back, and the angels didn’t seem to be helping.
XXXX
The room was dark. A soft mechanical whoosh timed a breath that Sam tried to reject. He gagged, trying to sit up and get whatever was choking him out of his throat. Only he was tied down. The beeping that seemed to be in cohorts with the whooshing increased in speed and his heart beat on the inside of his ribs like a xylophone. Someone told him to calm down, but it wasn’t the right voice, so he didn’t listen to it. A cold sensation in the crook of his arm argued with his body until it won and Sam fell asleep, the same face in his dreams over and over again, saving him from monsters, telling him everything was aright. But it wasn’t alright. Not by a long shot. And once again, his ribs broke, his mind swallowed the pain, unable to vomit it back out, the black void of longing opened like a chasm and Sam jumped in, wanting to hit bottom quick and have it over with.
I think you should go. The most feared words in Sam’s world.
XXXX
Dean went through Smith’s list of ‘relatives’ to try to begin to know how lost Sam must be feeling, but it never hit him until he took out his own phone and listened to the message that he’d clung to for comfort for the past two years. Hi,you’ve reached John Winchester, I’m not available but if it’s an emergency, you can call my son Dean. Tears hung from Dean’s lashes. He hadn’t been called son for a long time. He longed to be called brother, to call Sam his brother.
Mr. Smith’s phone rested in Dean’s left hand, while Dean’s phone was in his right. Chariots of Fire played as Dean answered it uncertainly.
“Dean Smith,” he croaked.
“Mr. Smith, this is Sunnybrook Hospital, Dr. Jenkins calling. Reception has listed you as the only contact for a Mr.Wesson. We realize that you’re not listed as a family member but we have a situation and were wondering if …”
“I’m on my way,” Dean cut off Jenkins and grabbed his leather coat. He stared at the two duffel bags he’d retrieved from the Impala, grabbing them both and taking off.
XXXX
Alarms blared and a team of medical staff members stood outside Sam’s door, a crashcart resisting being pushed into the room by an unseen force. A graying doctor tried to gain entry through the open door looking like he was walking against the wind. Dean’s heart fell into Mr. Smith’s wingtips as he ran down the hallway toward his brother.
No Sammy, no …
Dean shoved people and the crashcart out of his way, screaming a binding spell in Latin against his brother’s unconsciously tapped powers. Sam’s body stilled as his eyes shot open, finding Dean and locking onto him as pens and pencils flew from doctor’s and nurse’s pockets, finding any bare surface and etching messages on them. Walls were filled with words, Brother? Son? Demon? Good? Bad? Me? But one word stood alone. Dean. The only unwavering word, the only one without a question mark.
Computers at the nurse’s stations started spewing out trails of paper with the same words typed out over and over. All over the ward, phones and blackberries rang, texts flashing across stranger’s screens begging for answers to questions they couldn’t understand. Blood pressure readings and oxygen level reports in LED on the monitors attached to Sam’s body were replaced by pulsing red questions.
“Sammy … Oh God.”
Dean carefully made his way to Sam, pens and pencils darting to other surfaces, scribbling more furiously, yet in Sam’s tidy flowing script. Dean knew he had to be himself. What would Dean Winchester do? Because Dean knew he hadn’t been a brother to Sam in a long while, way before this whole Smith and Wesson fiasco. So Dean did what Dean did best.
“Hey, kiddo, your brain’s not covered for writer’s cramp.” Dean gripped Sam’s unnaturally still hand and leaned across him, his forehead touching Sam’s. Dean closed his eyes as pens and pencils were thwarted by the thick leather he wore. Dean repeated the binding spell as Sam’s body shook.
Sam seemed to live only his mind. Dean’s hand couldn’t find his heart as he placed it on Sam’s chest, nor his pulse as his fingers splayed across his neck.
“SAM!” Dean shouted.
Nothing.
The pens and pencils etched in the walls as leads broke and ink ran out, one word appearing more often now.
Dean. Dean. Dean. Me? Sam. Sammy?
“Yeah, kiddo, that’s right. It’s me, Dean and I’m not leaving anymore. And you’re not leaving me, you hear?”
Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Help me, Dean?
And the pens and pencils that weren’t embedded into the drywall clattered to the floor, the alarms blared louder and Sam’s eyes slid closed as people came to their senses and someone tried to shove Mr. Smith out of the way but Dean Winchester, Sam’s older brother didn’t let them. He allowed the medical personnel access to his brother but he never let go of the hand that clutched his in a death grip. Words were a blur as they tried to bring Sam back. Sam’s hand slackened, sliding from Dean’s grip but Dean grabbed onto it firmer.
“No, Sammy, don’t go. Please, don’t go …”
“Clear!” Someone grabbed Dean from behind unexpectedly and he broke the connection with his brother as Sam’s upper body arched toward the ceiling. Dean closed in as soon as he was being checked for the return of vitals.
“Got him!” someone shouted.
XXXX
Sam was moved to another room, no one able to explain what happened. No one asked Dean to leave either, not sure of what to do if anything like that happened again, so there were no stories necessary, no lies to be told. The walls spoke for themselves and until they were painted and resurfaced a few days later, that room had its fair share of theories tossed about, none as likely as the truth.
XXXX
Dean left only to shower over the next few days, eating only the barest morsels the nurses forced on him. A stare he could feel prickling on the top of his head as he startled awake from his resting position on Sam’s bed and a chair made him seek Sam’s face immediately. Blue-green eyes met his with uncertainty.
Sam couldn’t talk yet, his throat felt like layers of sandpaper scraping together, leaving gravel in its wake to choke him. So his eyes asked the question for him. And his life depended on the answer.
Dean?
“It’s me, Sammy, I’m here. Chick flick moment be damned, Dean leaned down and placed a kiss on his brother’s brow. “And they can use us, the angels and the demons, give us any names they want, Smith and Wesson or Winchester but we’re not weapons against each other, roses by any other name be damned,” Dean spat, the final leftovers of Mr. Smith’s sensibilities leaving him for good.
“De … an.” Sam whispered. “Broth … brother.”
“Damn right, bitch,” Dean said through tear-choked sobs.
“J … jerk.” A whispered reply through heavy lids.
I love you too.
XXXX
And in the hall, Castiel and his boss argued. Castiel told Zechariah that things had gone too far, that he’d let Sam come too close to death.
“But in order to be saved, one must be reborn,” Zechariah, told Castiel, disappearing.
Castiel entered Sam’s room to face the music but turned invisible at the sight of the two boys he cared about despite the warnings about Sam when he saw the brothers both asleep, Dean in a chair, hand resting on Sam’s chest, side-by-side like they belonged.
Let them sleep for there is work to be done.
Summary: The angels told Dean who he was, gave him back his memories, but Sam Wesson was gone. I think you should leave the last words he’d said to his little brother.
Genre: hurt/comfort, angst
XXXX
Zechariah could smile and look smug at the same time. Dean told him he would stab him in his face, angel or not and admitted, if only to himself that yes, hunting was his way of life. But only until it was safe again in the world, so yeah, forever, he guessed, or at least until he could save Sam, or until he died, whichever came first. And he might as well continue on the status quo, walking under ladders, while breaking mirrors while a black cat crosses his path. It was the Winchester way.
“Okay, so Zechariah, if you’re done Freaky Friday’in us, I’m going to change out of this monkey suit and go get Sam,” Dean told Castiel’s boss.
“Hardly a monkey suit, Dean,” Zechariah said, sounding genuinely offended, “That’s Armani all the way I’ll have you to know, owed us one.”
“Well since you pretty much gave me carte blanche to go on with being sleazy, I think I’ll keep the Armani for uh, interviewing witnesses,” Dean said with a wink heading for the door to fetch Sam.
“You do that, I’ll see you soon,” the angel said as Dean started out the door, turning around to take one last look at the what ifs this hunt had presented.
“Did I just say carte blanche?” Dean asked himself, shaking his head and knowing the sooner he and Sam had a beer and … God help him, a talk, the better off they’d be.
“New habits die hard,” Zechariah laughed. Castiel never laughed in any of his dealings with him. Dean wondered if an angel got his wings, his trials, a promotion, then a sense of humor and he wondered what level Cas was on, because that guy needed a … well, a life.
Dean walked down the hall calmly but inside he felt anything but. How would Sam react to seeing him in a suit and tie now that he knew him again? Dean slowed down, thinking over the last few days. Even in the alternate reality that Zechariah had placed them, Sam still wanted to be near him, talk to him when I dreamed, I saw us as friends, more like brothers. And he accused Sam of over-sharing, and almost buried his connection to the young man who had introduced himself in the elevator as Sam Wesson. The worst thing though, he sent Sam away when Sam suggested that they should save people, hunt things. Wasn’t that the very line Dean used on Sam some five years ago?
Zechariah left all of Dean’s memories from the last few days intact. Sam’s face flashed in Dean’s mind as he walked, the raw emotions, the awe of the hunt, the way Sam looked at him, like he used to, like a hero, like he could save the world, like he could save him. If only he could have taken the time to revel in that innocence. If only he could have trapped some of it to give back to the Sam he was sure to meet in a few minutes, as soon as his suddenly very heavy feet would get him to the cubicles downstairs.
The elevator nearest his office was still closed for repair, and Dean took the stairs, grateful for a few moments to collect his thoughts. The last thing he said to his brother was, I think you should go. Now he would beg Sam to stay, to fight beside him until the end wherever the road took them. Only when he arrived at the cubicles slightly out of breath and hungrier than he’d ever been in his life, Sam was gone.
“Has anyone seen Sam Win … Wesson?” he asked.
“He quit,” said an approaching tech who carried a new telephone and a stupid yellow polo shirt, as if Sam could be replaced.
Dean was about to go back to ‘his’ office to fetch his things only to realize that nothing there was his. He shrugged out of the suit jacket and expensive tie and flung them at the guy nearest who looked about his size and ran out the doors to the stairs taking two at a time. He rounded the corner of the atrium and threw his ID at a startled security guard and grabbed his keys from his pocket. The damn hybrid! The Impala was nowhere in sight. With a snort of disgust Dean got in the car and started driving. It was then that he realized he had no idea where his brother went.
Or if the angels had forgotten to let Sam in on the joke.
Oh my God, Sammy …
“Castiel!” Dean shouted as he pounded the steering wheel.
Sam could be anywhere by now.
XXXXXX
I think you should go.
The words repeated in Sam’s head and sunk, swirling in the pit of his stomach. He’d heard them before.
And if you walk out that door, don’t come back.
Sam pulled over. He stared at the passenger side of the old Impala. He’d always wanted one of those new hybrids but on his wage, this was all he could afford … but no that wasn’t right. Panic rose to replace the confusing memories and Sam stared at his cell phone. He’d gone through his entire list of contacts and no one knew who he was. It was all Sam could do not to U-turn and head back toward his former workplace, to Dean. But he was nothing to Dean, never had been, despite the dreams, despite the connection he felt when they fought side by side.
Sam swiped his hand over his eyes, rubbing hard enough to cause trails of light to blur across his retinas from the pressure. He was tired but didn’t want to go home to his small apartment. Sleep was not his friend. It seemed daylight wasn’t his friend anymore either because he couldn’t shake the ridiculous need to see … the guy in the suit upstairs. The guy in his dreams, now that just sounded wrong, the guy who he missed like he’d known him all his life. But he was alone in the world.
Sam kept it together only enough to wonder if the ghost back at the building had done a number on his brain. Dean, Mr. Smith, he amended in his mind to make himself feel less connected, seemed fine when the ghost hunt was over, detached and normal. So Sam went home.
Sam unlocked his apartment, having an immediate urge to open the curtains that looked out over the parking lot, to keep an eye on the Impala. The urge to see Mr. Smith overwhelming him even more now that he was no long cocooned in the sleek black car with the annoying squeaky doors. An urge to keep the car safe for reasons he couldn’t explain to himself was ever present in his mind.
As Sam busied himself tidying up, anything to keep himself distracted as images of horrific murders played in his mind, he glanced out toward the car every five minutes, almost sighing in relief every time he found it was still there, whole and safe. Sam cleaned, like neurotic ninja cleaned, ceiling fans, grout in the bathroom, and kickboards of the kitchen cupboards that no one ever saw, until exhaustion overtook him. He lay in his bed. It wasn’t right. The door was in too close a proximity to where he slept. He turned over to face the wall, feeling the emptiness behind him.
Sam closed his eyes but sleep wouldn’t claim him as his eyes roved under the lids watching himself burn bodies and torture people, a strange language playing like a weird horror movie soundtrack in his head. Only he recognized and understood what the voices were saying, and was speaking it himself even. He tried to still his mind, breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, slowly, but even that was wrong, somehow, someone was supposed to be there, telling him how to breathe, telling him how to make this go away, making everything alright.
I’m losing my mind.
Sam got up with purpose, feeling that if he put out the garbage that contained the bloody yellow shirt, the bad things would go away.
Cursed object? Sam Smacked himself in the face with cold water for even thinking such a stupid thing. The yellow shirt was tied up in a plastic bag in a container under the sink so it wouldn’t smell until garbage day came. Sam gathered the bag, holding it as far away from himself as he could, like it was bomb that would detonate and take whatever sliver of sanity he had left away.
In the parking lot by the dumpsters Sam drew in some cool evening air and threw the bag over the side of the steel bins. His body begged to walk back into the apartment and succumb to the weariness but his feet lead him to the car. His hand automatically reached for the passenger side door and he was momentarily shocked to find it locked as he jerked on the handle, desperate to hear the annoying screech of opening. He unlocked the car and got inside, not bothering to walk around to get in the driver’s side. It felt right here, warm, safe, home. And with those thoughts, Sam fell asleep.
It was dark when Sam heard a pounding noise. He jerked awake, hitting his head on the ceiling of the car and sprawling across the seat when he tried to stand up, thinking he was in bed. He fumbled to crawl out, foot hitting the horn as he clambered to a more dignified position. A cop stood outside the Impala, nightstick in hand, tapping it menacingly on his open palm, waiting expectantly for Sam to get out and explain what he was doing sleeping in a car. The yellow overhead lot lighting caught the man’s eyes and flashed amber. Sam’s gut twisted and he drew his knees in and his hand back from the door handle, terrified for reasons he couldn’t fathom.
“You have thirty seconds to get out of that car and explain why you’re sleeping in a parking lot,” warned the cop, his eyes a normal shade of green now. He talked into his radio, informing some unseen person that he was about to perform a Breathalyzer test and might need backup.
But Sam couldn’t do it; couldn’t get out. Those eyes. He’d seen them in his dreams. Dean … no, someone who looked like Dean had killed someone with yellow eyes. Yellow eyes weren’t right anymore than the yellow shirt that was now in the dumpster thirty feet away.
“I’ll say it again; step out of the vehicle.” The cop was getting mad. Sam just couldn’t do it.
Pretty soon another cruiser pulled up, both cops trying to coax Sam from the vehicle, firstly in a nice way, then by playing good cop bad cop, then by smashing a window throwing Sam into a complete panic. Sam grabbed his cell phone and dialed Dean’s extension number back at Sandwell.
“You’ve reached Dean Smith, please leave a message or text and I’ll be in touch as soon as possible,” said Mr. Smith’s voicemail.
Sam tried to speak, he really did, only what could he say? So his fingers played out like a remembered song he couldn’t identify, and he didn’t have a clue what he typed. Before he could stop himself, he hit send.
The window shattered into a million pieces along with Sam’s mind. He curled in on himself, knowing in the back of his mind somewhere that smashing sounds near the Impala were never a good thing.
Hands grabbed him as he fought to cling to his spot in the car his spot.
Sam flailed and kicked, connecting with flesh several times earning him painful whacks with wooden batons. His body barely flinched, like it was used to punishment. He fought blindly until his feet were swept out from under him. A heavy body lay across his chest, attempting to pin his arms as he kicked out. A jolt of electricity chorused through his tortured mind and exhausted body, held in place for a prolonged period of absolute agony. Blinded to everything by the pain and the jerking of his body, Sam looked up at the reflected light in the yellow eyes, the baton held at his throat, choking him.
Sam’s vision narrowed until voices floated down to the pavement, mingling with the whispers of horror in his aching head.
Someone was screaming for someone to stop something, but Sam wasn’t doing anything, not anymore, so he disregarded it and enjoyed the sudden peace the lack of oxygen brought him. One of the cops fell to the ground, black smoke billowing from his mouth. The cop rolled over to stare eye to eye with Sam. Green eyes, good, Sam thought vaguely, letting the darkness take him.
XXXX
Dean drove as fast as he could, realizing he had no idea where Sam Wesson lived. It felt unreal to call his office and ask his former secretary for a phone number and address of an employee who’d quit, and to actually have the call answered on all accounts. As soon as Dean hung up, having made a date somehow with the former secretary, an unfamiliar noise sounded. Dean’s own cell phone was in his hand, but Mr. Smith’s phone was ringing from within the deep Armani trousers pockets. The theme from Chariots of Fire?
“This is Dean.” It was the only thing he could think of to say. But then he looked down and realized the message was in text form. Not co-ordinates but something just as familiar, Morse code. Funky Town.
Dean pulled up to the modest building, but spotting the flashing lights around back, he parked and walked as casually as he could to see what was going on. He suppressed a shout as someone was hoisted onto a gurney that was whisked into the back of a waiting ambulance. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the blue uniform. It wasn’t Sam.
The relief was short lived.
An officer sat on the ground, running his hands through his hair, looking like he was having a hell of a time explaining to a plainclothes officer who was clearly his superior, what had happened.
“I don’t know what happened, he just kept hitting the suspect with his tazer over and over, even after the guy gave up and went into convulsions. I kept yelling for Officer Jonas to stop, then Jonas sort of just fell to the ground and there was this … smoke … it came out of his mouth, so much of it. When he came to, he looked at the suspect and kept muttering how sorry he was.”
Dean’s mouth went dry. The plainclothes cop ordered the uniformed cop to go home and get some rest and report to the office for a psychiatric evaluation in the morning. Dean got it together as best he could and approached the scene.
“Excuse me officers, something wrong with my car?” Dean asked, appearing as if he had just come across the scene.
“This your car?” the officer asked.
“Just said it was, of course, it’s my project car,” Dean lied, pointing to the nose of the hybrid sticking out from the side of the building where he’d parked. “That’s my every day car,” he added, knowing that the shiny new car would gain him some instant credibility and respect.
“I’m afraid we caught a vagrant sleeping in your vehicle, Mr…”
“Smith,” Dean lied again, reaching for the ID that hadn’t mysteriously disappeared along with the life he’d lead for a few days.
“Well, Mr. Smith, you’d be making our work a lot easier if you’d go through your car right now to check and see if anything was stolen.”
Dean made a show of going through the car, making sure he didn’t accidentally let any of their fake ID”s fall from the glove box.
“Nah, everything’s here, the guy probably was just sleeping off a drunken fight with a girlfriend or something,” Dean assured the officer, feeling sick about not being able to get to Sam right away.
“So, ah, where did they take the guy?” Dean asked, trying to sound casual.
“The guy went ballistic when they tried to get him to exit the vehicle, probably an addict. He’s been taken to the hospital. You have a fine evening, here’s your incident report to hand to your insurance company Mr. Smith, and next time, lock up.”
“Will do, officer,” Dean said, barely containing the snarl. He kicked at the shards of glass on the ground and swore after the officers pulled away.
On the third floor of Sam’s building, Dean worked for thirty seconds to pick the lock to Sam’s apartment. Inaccurate depictions of supernatural beings, hand drawn, were hanging from every wall as though Sam had been trying to figure out his life. But Dean could still tell what the beings were. There was the Wendigo, drawn in the style Sam used when he was six years old, the werewolf, half morphed into a woman and Dean’s heart broke to see Madison’s eyes staring out from the wolfish face. Pictures of insanity and desperation to unburden his mind.
“Castiel!” Dean yelled again and again, no one appeared. Dean slammed his fist down on the telephone table. A small address book fell to the ground, full of crossed out names, all with the last name Wesson. Dean flipped through the pages, his heart sinking seeing his name written over and over again with different last names. Dean Smith, Dean Wesson, Dean Colt, Dean Pattinson, Dean Glockenspiel, Dean Baretta. Then there was a hole punched through about ten pages, trailing pencil lead as if Sam had become frustrated and stabbed the book. And on the last page, Smith and Wesson.
XXXX
A jab of pain in the crook of his elbow opened Sam’s eyes and he lashed at the hands that seemed to crawl all over him. Voices talked over his screams of pain and added to the thunder in his brain. A face appeared very near his and looked down at him.
“Can you tell us what you’re on?” a white coated man asked.
Sam tried to get his mouth to move. What did they mean, on? Sam tried to focus as the man looked away shouting orders at the people who kept poking and prodding him. His shirt was cut away and Sam vaguely worried about how mad his boss would be about the yellow polo getting ruined when he remembered that he wasn’t wearing it anymore. He’d quit. Yeah. And Mr. Smith was still there. Away from him.
“Tox screen came back negative, also negative for alcohol,” someone said.
Sam tried to push aside the oxygen mask that helped him pull breaths in past his bruised larynx. The doctor leaned over him again, this time, sounding a little less accusatory and a little more kind. “Okay, son, don’t worry, we’ll get you sorted out. We need to immobilize your neck for a bit to give your throat a break. You have three broken ribs and your electrolytes are all over the place from the jolts. We’re going to give you something for the pain now that we know you’re know you’re clean and then we’re going to set your wrist. Do you understand?”
Sam nodded slowly, hanging desperately on the words pain relief and hoping whatever they gave him would take the ache and emptiness from his heart too and put his brain out of its misery.
“Poor kid,” a female voice said. “Wonder how he came to be sleeping in a car. Doesn’t look like a vagrant.”
M’not a vagrant, that car, it’s … home. Sam thought miserably.
Sam had been a John Doe many times before, that much he knew, he’d just never been a Sam Wesson, and there had always been someone to come for him, no matter how long it took. There was usually someone yelling about needing to see him, to get their damn hands off his little brother … but Sam wasn’t a little brother. Tears leaked from Sam’s eyes and dripped over his nose down his cheeks. He fought the medicine that only a minute ago, he craved, dying, quite literally to hear that voice, the one that claimed him for his own, that’s my brother Sam Tyler, Sam Zappa, Sam Osbourne, just not Sam Wesson, never Sam Wesson. Or Sammy … He’d called him Sammy once, Mr. Smith had. But never brother.
“The meds should be kicking in by now,” someone said, grasping Sam’s wrist, preparing to set and cast it.
“Don’t fight it, kid,” the nurse told Sam. So Sam let go. And that’s when the alarms went off and more hands were on his body as he floated away like a balloon let go by a child ready to reach its limit, burst and fall to earth and crash and burn.
What would I do without you?
Crash and burn.
“Blood pressure’s bottoming out! Get the paddles ready but don’t hit unless we can’t get him back. He’s already been tasered at least three times.”
Someone straddled him and pushed on his chest violently hard, sending splinters of pain throughout his body, air was forced in and out of him, conflicting with the hands on his chest pumping it right back out.
“Got him!” someone by his head shouted. Duh, yeah, you got me, not like I can run away. But that was exactly what he wanted to do. No one cared anyway. No one was coming for him. Why did these people make him come back to nothing?
XXXX
Dean knew he had to be careful. He caught snippets of conversation from nurses at the desk of the hospital about the poor young man who was admitted screaming about demons and having nobody. He debated telling them the he was Sam’s brother, like he’d always done, but somehow it didn’t fit and he didn’t want Sam freaked out more right now, after all, Mr. Smith had told Mr. Wesson to leave and closed the door on him even as Sam had turned to say something, his words dying on his lips.
“Can I help you?” asked a bored receptionist, who perked up the moment she looked up from her computer screen to Dean.
“You sure can, Ms, Dairy,” Dean read from the lapel of her uniform. “I’m Dean Smith from Sandwell. You have one of our employees, a Sam Wesson admitted here. “
“How do you know that? We’ve been trying to reach next-of-kin for an hour, Mr. Smith and have been unable.” Ms. Dairy flipped her finger down the list of not-in-service numbers she’d been given to try from Sam’s cell. “He hasn’t listed an employer contact so I’m sorry but I can’t offer you any information.”
“Um, about that, yeah, of course,” Dean stammered, wanting to go full-on Dean Winchester, guy who practically raised Sam all by himself but reigning it in so he could figure something out. “See, the thing is, Sandwell has been experiencing a lot of entry level employee stress leaves, even a few suicides so we’ve started an outreach program, you know to firm up the bottom line, and we’ve been trying to get young Wesson to see our staff psychologist but unfortunately with the death of a workmate only a few days ago, the poor kid quit. We didn’t process the er letter of resignation smashed telephone and shattered cubicle wanting to give him a cooling off period, so we’re prepared to pay for his medical costs,”
“That’s very generous of the company, Mr. Smith,” Ms Dairy said, pushing some forms toward Dean and asking him to fill them out.
Dean unfolded Mr. Smith’s expensive leather wallet and copied a number from an insurance form. His eyes raked the questions on the form supposed to be filled in by family or friends. Standing up quickly he approached the desk, his most winning smile in place.
“Um, Sammy, er, Sam, Mr. Wesson that is, I heard that his parents and younger sister were killed in a plane crash recently,” he lied. I forgot his employee forms back at the office but I do remember him mentioning being allergic to penicillin. We do a lot of team building exercises at Sandwell, they encourage mingling.” Dean couldn’t believe the woman in front of him was buying this made-for-TV moment and lying he was doing, but she actually became a bit misty eyed.
“Well that would explain the outbursts, that boy’s been through the ringer,” Ms Dairy said sadly. “We have a decent psych ward here once he gets out of the ICU, but if Sandwell is as committed as you say, he might be better off at a privately run facility.”
“ICU?” Dean suddenly stammered.
“Mr. Wesson was tasered three times and has suffered numerous fractures. Strictly speaking I’m not supposed to tell you this but I can’t imagine that poor boy being alone in all of this, not with his family and workmate so recently deceased. Anyone would crack under those pressures.”
You have no idea lady, Dean thought.
Dean left the hospital, feet dragging and walked right by the hybrid, instinctively looking for the Impala, panicking momentarily not finding it. He got in the hybrid and drove to Mr. Smith’s apartment, figuring he might as well stay there as to stay in a sleazy motel. When had things gotten so screwed up?
Dean sat in Mr. Smith’s chair trying to come up with a way to take back all the horrible things he’d said to his brother. I think you should go, you don’t have my back anymore, something about screwing monsters. Mr. Smith and Mr. Winchester had both done a number on their little brother. And Dean was going to make it right, both ways, he was going to listen to Sam’s apology and make one of his own. That is if he could get Sam Winchester back, and the angels didn’t seem to be helping.
XXXX
The room was dark. A soft mechanical whoosh timed a breath that Sam tried to reject. He gagged, trying to sit up and get whatever was choking him out of his throat. Only he was tied down. The beeping that seemed to be in cohorts with the whooshing increased in speed and his heart beat on the inside of his ribs like a xylophone. Someone told him to calm down, but it wasn’t the right voice, so he didn’t listen to it. A cold sensation in the crook of his arm argued with his body until it won and Sam fell asleep, the same face in his dreams over and over again, saving him from monsters, telling him everything was aright. But it wasn’t alright. Not by a long shot. And once again, his ribs broke, his mind swallowed the pain, unable to vomit it back out, the black void of longing opened like a chasm and Sam jumped in, wanting to hit bottom quick and have it over with.
I think you should go. The most feared words in Sam’s world.
XXXX
Dean went through Smith’s list of ‘relatives’ to try to begin to know how lost Sam must be feeling, but it never hit him until he took out his own phone and listened to the message that he’d clung to for comfort for the past two years. Hi,you’ve reached John Winchester, I’m not available but if it’s an emergency, you can call my son Dean. Tears hung from Dean’s lashes. He hadn’t been called son for a long time. He longed to be called brother, to call Sam his brother.
Mr. Smith’s phone rested in Dean’s left hand, while Dean’s phone was in his right. Chariots of Fire played as Dean answered it uncertainly.
“Dean Smith,” he croaked.
“Mr. Smith, this is Sunnybrook Hospital, Dr. Jenkins calling. Reception has listed you as the only contact for a Mr.Wesson. We realize that you’re not listed as a family member but we have a situation and were wondering if …”
“I’m on my way,” Dean cut off Jenkins and grabbed his leather coat. He stared at the two duffel bags he’d retrieved from the Impala, grabbing them both and taking off.
XXXX
Alarms blared and a team of medical staff members stood outside Sam’s door, a crashcart resisting being pushed into the room by an unseen force. A graying doctor tried to gain entry through the open door looking like he was walking against the wind. Dean’s heart fell into Mr. Smith’s wingtips as he ran down the hallway toward his brother.
No Sammy, no …
Dean shoved people and the crashcart out of his way, screaming a binding spell in Latin against his brother’s unconsciously tapped powers. Sam’s body stilled as his eyes shot open, finding Dean and locking onto him as pens and pencils flew from doctor’s and nurse’s pockets, finding any bare surface and etching messages on them. Walls were filled with words, Brother? Son? Demon? Good? Bad? Me? But one word stood alone. Dean. The only unwavering word, the only one without a question mark.
Computers at the nurse’s stations started spewing out trails of paper with the same words typed out over and over. All over the ward, phones and blackberries rang, texts flashing across stranger’s screens begging for answers to questions they couldn’t understand. Blood pressure readings and oxygen level reports in LED on the monitors attached to Sam’s body were replaced by pulsing red questions.
“Sammy … Oh God.”
Dean carefully made his way to Sam, pens and pencils darting to other surfaces, scribbling more furiously, yet in Sam’s tidy flowing script. Dean knew he had to be himself. What would Dean Winchester do? Because Dean knew he hadn’t been a brother to Sam in a long while, way before this whole Smith and Wesson fiasco. So Dean did what Dean did best.
“Hey, kiddo, your brain’s not covered for writer’s cramp.” Dean gripped Sam’s unnaturally still hand and leaned across him, his forehead touching Sam’s. Dean closed his eyes as pens and pencils were thwarted by the thick leather he wore. Dean repeated the binding spell as Sam’s body shook.
Sam seemed to live only his mind. Dean’s hand couldn’t find his heart as he placed it on Sam’s chest, nor his pulse as his fingers splayed across his neck.
“SAM!” Dean shouted.
Nothing.
The pens and pencils etched in the walls as leads broke and ink ran out, one word appearing more often now.
Dean. Dean. Dean. Me? Sam. Sammy?
“Yeah, kiddo, that’s right. It’s me, Dean and I’m not leaving anymore. And you’re not leaving me, you hear?”
Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Help me, Dean?
And the pens and pencils that weren’t embedded into the drywall clattered to the floor, the alarms blared louder and Sam’s eyes slid closed as people came to their senses and someone tried to shove Mr. Smith out of the way but Dean Winchester, Sam’s older brother didn’t let them. He allowed the medical personnel access to his brother but he never let go of the hand that clutched his in a death grip. Words were a blur as they tried to bring Sam back. Sam’s hand slackened, sliding from Dean’s grip but Dean grabbed onto it firmer.
“No, Sammy, don’t go. Please, don’t go …”
“Clear!” Someone grabbed Dean from behind unexpectedly and he broke the connection with his brother as Sam’s upper body arched toward the ceiling. Dean closed in as soon as he was being checked for the return of vitals.
“Got him!” someone shouted.
XXXX
Sam was moved to another room, no one able to explain what happened. No one asked Dean to leave either, not sure of what to do if anything like that happened again, so there were no stories necessary, no lies to be told. The walls spoke for themselves and until they were painted and resurfaced a few days later, that room had its fair share of theories tossed about, none as likely as the truth.
XXXX
Dean left only to shower over the next few days, eating only the barest morsels the nurses forced on him. A stare he could feel prickling on the top of his head as he startled awake from his resting position on Sam’s bed and a chair made him seek Sam’s face immediately. Blue-green eyes met his with uncertainty.
Sam couldn’t talk yet, his throat felt like layers of sandpaper scraping together, leaving gravel in its wake to choke him. So his eyes asked the question for him. And his life depended on the answer.
Dean?
“It’s me, Sammy, I’m here. Chick flick moment be damned, Dean leaned down and placed a kiss on his brother’s brow. “And they can use us, the angels and the demons, give us any names they want, Smith and Wesson or Winchester but we’re not weapons against each other, roses by any other name be damned,” Dean spat, the final leftovers of Mr. Smith’s sensibilities leaving him for good.
“De … an.” Sam whispered. “Broth … brother.”
“Damn right, bitch,” Dean said through tear-choked sobs.
“J … jerk.” A whispered reply through heavy lids.
I love you too.
XXXX
And in the hall, Castiel and his boss argued. Castiel told Zechariah that things had gone too far, that he’d let Sam come too close to death.
“But in order to be saved, one must be reborn,” Zechariah, told Castiel, disappearing.
Castiel entered Sam’s room to face the music but turned invisible at the sight of the two boys he cared about despite the warnings about Sam when he saw the brothers both asleep, Dean in a chair, hand resting on Sam’s chest, side-by-side like they belonged.
Let them sleep for there is work to be done.